


smoked lamb

by marginaliana



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel/Demon, Cannibalism??, Declarations Of Love, Demon Form, Ethereal Sex, M/M, Other, PWP, Weird Shit, eldritch af, gross demon form, idek how to tag this, it's consensual anyway, sort of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 23:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19474009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: Angels, of course, are supposed to be the terrible ones. 'Be not afraid' and all that. Crowley can understand how a human might be a little bit alarmed when faced with something that has an aura and feathers and too many eyes. But demons are something different, somethingworse.





	smoked lamb

Crowley wonders, in his darkest moments, if his true self is what would make Aziraphale finally turn away. His human body is straightforward enough – it's been called handsome and jammy and flash and hip and cool and rad over the years [1] – but even in Eden he'd been careful to show himself as a fairly standard human-interacting angel, person-shaped with a pair of wings, or as a nice, normal snake. He hadn't dared be anything else.

Angels, of course, are supposed to be the terrible ones. 'Be not afraid' and all that. Crowley can understand how a human might be a little bit alarmed when faced with something that has an aura and feathers and too many eyes. But demons are something different, something _worse_. The angels don’t know; it’s Hell’s best kept secret. Allegedly it’s because they don’t want to give away a point of weakness, but Crowley has always suspected that it’s because none of them want to ruin the angels’ innocence. Probably _Lucifer_ isn't even that much of a bastard.

Crowley has gone so long in a human body that he’s mostly forgotten that other form is even an option. Which is why, when everything goes to Hell [2], he’s completely unprepared to catch himself before he sees the mugger, thinks _Oh, fuck no,_ and shoves himself, body and ether and all, between the man and Aziraphale.

He unfurls with a noise not unlike the snap of a sail made of human skin. It's the first time he's had genuine air on himself in centuries and he can feel himself bubbling at the contact, ether popping and dripping down into streams and tentacles that reek of burnt feathers. He vibrates like an angry beehive.

The mugger, unsurprisingly, has fainted already. Which leaves only Aziraphale to witness the depravity.

_Fuck,_ Crowley thinks.

"Crowley—"

"Don't," Crowley says. He'd turn around if that would make any difference. But instead all he can do is try to force himself back, try to squish back down into that human body which suddenly seems as small and tight as a hipster’s trousers. "Don't look, Angel, don't look." His sepulchral voice is terrible, even to himself. "Close your eyes."

"Crowley—"

He can't read the emotion in Aziraphale's voice, but maybe there's no word for that feeling. Maybe ‘horror’ isn't strong enough.

"Please, Angel."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says. "You're so beautiful."

"Don't lie to me," Crowley says. "You're an angel, it's beneath you." _I can't bear it._

"It isn't a lie!" Aziraphale says indignantly. "I would never."

"What about the time back in Romania with the—" Crowley doesn't get to finish the thought, because Aziraphale slides right out of his own human body and blossoms open.

The angel is fire, but the burning is soft where they touch. He has all the stereotypical parts, of course: wings, achingly white; eyes that watch him from four dimensions and more; hands with fingernails like knives. The sharpness ought to cut, ought to rend and tear his feathers into jagged strips. But it's the flat of the blades that come to stroke him, it's the wings that come to arch above and shelter him from the harshness of the streetlights. His wings are infused with enough gold that Crowley can be illuminated without melting away.

Aziraphale's touch sings with divine love; it would be enough to break Crowley if he weren't broken already, if everything good and true hadn't already been taken from him in the Fall.

"Don't look," Crowley pleads once more. He doesn't want Aziraphale to see this, to remember it, to think of it for the rest of their time together however long that may be.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale says. His voice is as deep and sure as an angel's ought to be. "I've always looked at you." He comes in closer, gathering Crowley up into the mist of his arms. "I've always seen you."

He melds them together, not waiting for the explicit permission that Crowley could never give. Then Crowley is throwing his head back, aching, feeling the touch of holiness as an intense pleasure-pain. His essence bubbles and dribbles; he thinks despairingly of Aziraphale's pale purity. But Aziraphale just begins licking at him, tasting him with a thousand tongues, lapping him up like spilled wine too precious to leave where it's spilled.

"Angel—" Crowley shakes, can't help himself. It shouldn't feel like this. It shouldn't feel so _good_. But Aziraphale has always made him feel impossible things.

"You smell—"

"Charred."

"Like smoked lamb,” Aziraphale breathes. “That bruschetta we had in Paris, do you remember?”

The memory caresses through his mind, a vision of Aziraphale’s ecstatic expression as he placed the thin slices of meat and creme fraiche and baguette delicately between his lips, chewed, and swallowed. Crowley hadn’t cared for bruschetta then, and doesn’t much care for it now, but the memory is as tender as the meat must have been.

Crowley feels his fangs begin to come down. He wants to taste, wants to seep out poison for seasoning and then rip free a chunk of Aziraphale’s essence, gorge himself on it, chewing until it dissolves.

“Yes, that’s right,” Aziraphale says. His voice is the sound of countless nightingales singing. “Share with me, darling. Let me share with you.”

Crowley groans and bites, as gently as he can. Aziraphale moans in reply and sucks the poison from him, gives it back mixed with his fleshy essence, manna tasting of champagne and tinged with dark chocolate. He feeds himself into Crowley, generous – no, more than generous, eager. Crowley could weep at the feeling of Aziraphale inside him, warm, thick, wallowing, practically cuddling himself there. 

“You feel so good,” Aziraphale says. There’s love in his voice again (still), but it’s smaller now. Or, not smaller, but focused. Not a love for God, or Heaven, or Earth, or even for books. A love for something particular. A love for someone. A love for Crowley.

“Angel,” he gasps. “Angel, you can’t.”

“I can,” Aziraphale says, understanding immediately. “I can, my love. I can and I do.”

"No," Crowley says. His heart, or what's left of it, is beginning to roil. "No, no."

"Yes," Aziraphale says. His voice now is a wisp of air, a cool breeze across the heat of Crowley's shame. "I should have told you earlier, I should have made sure you knew." He looks at Crowley from inside, sees him and knows him with merciless thoroughness. "But I was afraid of what you'd think." He pulses once and then peels open his pistil center, baring himself to Crowley's harsh gaze. It's beautiful. "Do they teach you that in Hell? How not to be afraid?"

"No," Crowley says, panting, ichor undulating like long hair in water. It smokes where they touch. "No one teaches you. You just get used to— to carrying on."

"Carry on with me," Aziraphale says. "Let me carry on with you, darling."

He wants it. Oh, how Crowley wants it. To have their almost-human life and to have this, too. To have Aziraphale look at him with all his thousands of eyes and not turn away. He wants it so much that his vibrations turn to shudders, wings stuttering hard enough for fragile feathers to break away. Aziraphale gathers them up to his mouths, kisses them, sends them into a twirl until they settle, indigo-dappled, amongst his own white-gold mass. It ought to be defilement but all Crowley can see is two nothings made real together. 

He doesn’t hurt anymore. Love is holding him open to itself, and Crowley finds it impossible to be afraid. Maybe this is how he is supposed to learn.

"I love you," he says. It's easy. The trembling soft center of him puts forth a handful of rotted buds.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says. He feeds another bit of himself into Crowley's mouth and it tastes brighter, a pinprick of starlight. "I love you."

Joy scatters through Crowley as the buds inside him blossom and fling themselves free in a haze of skunk-scent. Aziraphale's essence against him and inside him is an exquisite dance, jagged and smooth and rough and soft. Crowley falls easily into the feeling, even more easily than when he'd Fallen as if this is where he truly belongs. He loves, he is loved; they are wrapped in ecstacy together; it is oblivion and it is the most aware he has ever been and it is good, so good, so hot and sweet and foul and dark and light, and it is oh— oh— oh—

He folds back down into his human-ish body as the rapture ebbs, the horror of his true self nestling in. Aziraphale doesn't let go, just keeps kissing him and kissing him, though now it’s only with one mouth.

"I love you," he says between kisses. "Crowley. In this body or the other or anything you choose to show."

Crowley kisses Aziraphale back and tells himself it's just to shut him up. The deception doesn't last long. "Take me back to the shop," he says. Aziraphale waits patiently for the rest, and Crowley can't not give it to him. "Take me home."

Aziraphale slips one very human hand into Crowley's very human hand. But there is a faint sense underneath it, the feel of a pale wing caressing over a dark, flaking wing.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Mostly by himself. [back]  
> [2] Metaphorically. If they'd gone physically, things would have been better. Or worse. Possibly both. [back]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] smoked lamb by marginaliana](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244808) by [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose)




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